Of Maglor and the War of the Last Alliance
by Aranarth
Summary: A plot bunny was biting me badly. Many thanks to Rhovaniel for betaing this story. In progress. Please review :)
1. Prologue

_The year 3428 of the Second Age_

It was a cold evening with the occasional drop of rain. The wind was howling in a tune that would sound like agonized wailing to the unused ear, but the elf sitting in his makeshift shelter somewhere on the coast of the recently founded kingdom of Gondor was quite used to it.

He had, after all, spent an entire age by the sea. It was hard in the beginning, for the sound reminded him of the cries of the Teleri sailors the Noldor slaughtered in Alqualondë, but he adapted in time. His blackened hands were resting on the wooden frame of a modest harp; although the burns interfered with his playing, he found himself unable to give up.

The harp was the last part of his true self. He could not abandon the music that was part of his life since he was born, in happier times. The music that seemed to flow through his veins instead of blood. For the elf sitting was Makalaurë, second son of Fëanor, also known as the mighty singer. And he was angry. Anger was an unusual emotion in the heart of this exile.

Sadness he was more than familiar with, guilt was like an old friend, but he found himself unable to cope with the anger that was festering in his chest, like an old wound, a worm that wouldn't stop gnawing on his soul. Nearly two thousand years had passed since the death of his nephew; Maglor had been shocked when he heard the tales. Grief had even driven him to give up on his wanderings for a while so he could visit the grave of his last relative. But after grief had become easier to bear, anger took over.

The monster that killed little Tyelpë was still at large. Not only killed but also tortured. The bright, inquisitive child that Maglor had held on his knees. Many times he had played until the little one was asleep, and then he would bring him to his bed and tuck him in. He had watched the child growing to a young capable man, a lord of his own. The last Maglor had heard about him was that he was the lord of a mighty city, and he had rejoiced for the thought that his nephew had escaped the curse of their house.

But then one day had come the words that he was gone. Tyelpë was gone. His fury had been enormous, but it could not bring his nephew back. He knew that his repentance had lost its strength, for he would easier chop off his leg than get rid of the turmoil in his hearth. He could not grieve while the Abhorred One was still walking the earth. Thunder rolled in the distance and the sea started groaning. So unusual was the sound that it interrupted Maglor's black thoughts.

He went out to see what was happening. The sight was magnificent. A massive tidal wave was rolling from the depths, its foamy crown brilliant in the darkening sky. The crest was enormous. Maglor stared with wide eyes, for in all the years by the sea he had never seen anything like that. He offered a quick prayer to Varda. It was useless to even try running. He steeled himself, expecting the enormous blow. With closed eyes he stood, but he was not afraid. He saw the terrors of the First Age. Death was nothing but a welcome rest. The blow never came.

Maglor reluctantly opened one eye, and was shocked for the first time in a thousand years. The wave stopped near the shore, and slowly split open to reveal a massive, but much smaller figure. The creature raised his hand and beckoned him to come closer.

As he approached the sea, he was able to see many details. A helm crafted in the likeness of a wave. An armour created to resemble the scales of a giant fish. Recognition dawned on him and he fell to his knees. Although he was a Noldo, everyone respected Ulmo, the mighty lord of the seas of Arda.

"Rise, singer, and fear not my wrath,"spoke the Vala, "for I come to help, not to punish." His voice was as deep as the foundations of the earth itself, but not unkind, for before Maglor stood a most compassionate soul, only friend to the exiled Noldor. He slowly got up from his knees.

"An entire age of this world has passed since we directly interfered in the affairs of the world. We cannot do so again. You heard of the fall of Númenor? " said Ulmo.

"Indeed I heard about it my lord, and I felt it, for the sea was in turmoil for an entire week. I hoped that something good would come out of it, but that vile worm Sauron survived " spoke Maglor, unable to control the seething hatred in his voice.

"A new war is on the horizon, Makalaurë. The Free Peoples will march to war once again. You already lost your nephew. Now, the life of your foster son is also on the line, for the Abhorred One has a deep hatred for the son of Eärendil. A huge task I must request of you. You must take up arms once again, for the good of all in Middle-earth. All hangs in a delicate balance. I will understand if you refuse, but know this: you can still do much good. "

Elrond in danger. Maglor's little one. The son he never had. There was no choice there.

"I accept, my lord Ulmo. My blade will fight to avenge Celebrimbor and defend Elrond. To war! " said Maglor with iron resolve.


	2. Chapter 1

When the new day came Maglor quickly packed the meager possessions he still had in a bundle that he could easily carry on his back. He was briskly walking out of his hut when he was hit by realisation. Where was he to go? The world had changed beyond recognition and which elven gweth would accept a kinslayer? Maglor's body was that of a pure-blood Noldo, and elven memory was flawless. He might be easily recognized.

Well, if the elves would not have him, the elf-friends of Gondor would. He would go to the ancient city of Pelargir, and from there he would proceed to the younger capital of Osgiliath on the river Anduin. Maglor smiled and started running beneath the rays of the new sun. Elven stamina and speed were legendary, and the physical effort was good for his troubled mind.

The landscape had always been beautiful in the country the Dúnedain named Lebennin, and its wondrous fields and soft meadows were covered with flowers of every variety. Sometimes he would run past the occasional small house, its white walls shining in the light of the sun. They were usually accompanied by bountiful vegetable gardens. In the distance he could see the golden glow of wheat fields. It was autumn and almost harvest time, so he was careful not to trample the crops.

Even Mandos would have laughed if the second son of Fëanor came to his halls on the wings of a farmer's wrath. Nelyo wouldn't let him hear the end of it. Maglor could already hear his brother's smirking voice: "I die by leaping to a fiery chasm, and you die on the wrong end of a pitchfork? Aren't you supposed to be the one with the dramatic flair, brother? "

Night found Maglor on the outskirts of a small fishing village whose name he knew not. He had been preparing to rest in the cover of a tree when a soft hand touched his shoulder, startling him. He whirled around, his hand going for the sword. But this was no Orc. Only a young girl around the age of twenty. Unperturbed by his reaction, she crossed her hands over her chest.

"My father has an inn in the village, and we will not let you make us look like poor elf-friends."

Ignoring his protestations, she dragged him to a homely building in the centre of the village. She had some difficulty opening the door and dragging him by his tunic at the same time, but she managed. The girl's name was Rhiane, as Maglor found out later. Her father was a tall, majestic Dúnadan with strokes of white in his rapidly greying hair.

His name was Herion, and he was a cheerful fellow. The inn was filled with stout local farmers, who looked like decent folk. They quickly grew silent at the sight of the elf; they were not common in the village. In the silence that was quite uncomfortable for poor Maglor, the inkeeper gave him a meal consisting of the finest wares his modest establishment could offer. As Maglor ate, he felt people gazing at him, but his hunger was so great that he focused on the fine food instead. An age of wandering by the shore can do wonders for one's appetite. Bread and cheese, grape and wine, were simple and modest fare, but to the prince of Tirion their taste was beyond every feast he had ever tasted on the court of his grandfather. People started chuckling at his ravenous appetite, and soon the slow evening continued as if he was not even there.

Maglor finished his dinner and whispered to the inkeeper: "I thank you dearly for this meal, friend, but I am afraid I have to pay you in some way."

Herion just chuckled at him: "A poor host would I be, friend Elf. Your gold is not welcome here, and we shall not let you pay for the hospitality of the Dúnedain, for it is not a service. It is a custom."

"Glad I am to see that, Master Herion" Maglor said. "But at least allow me to cheer up your guests with some songs. I was a bard and I would have the pleasure of entertaining you all".

"We would be honored to listen to your songs, master Elf." Rhiane said with a smile.

And so Maglor found himself at the corner of the inn, his harp in hand, and twenty pairs of curios eyes on him. He pondered for a moment, searching for a good song. The Noldolantë was out of the question; he wanted people to smile, not weep. And so he started an easy melody about a sparrow.

"_On the day when you were born, without the strength to fly,_

_on that very easy morn you were left in the mud to die._

_The heavy rain was falling, you lifted up your head,_

_your feathers were too heavy to fly the fastest lap._

_You wanted to be heard, your whistle filled the whole wide world,_

_the raindrops started to carry a pure new and happy sound._

_You were brave but so weak, that you could hardly speak._

_Then your mind started hardly spinning 'round and 'round._

_When your heart beats like a drum!_

_In a moment five hundred times!_

_When you got the world in your eye_

_and when you want to meet the sun._

_You woke up in a cage, I know that was the rage._

_To find yourself in prison, your soul started to cry._

_You raised your sad look, the last view you took,_

_gazing into the blue heavens that were now gone._

_Now you are looking from above, your wings surround me all around,_

_Your smile is now happy and you don't feel the pain._

_There's no dikes and there are no fences, to keep you here enslaved._

_The stream of life is ready to lift you up once again!_

_When your heart beats like a drum!_

_In a moment five hundred times!_

_When you got the world in your eye_

_and when you want to meet the sun! "_

Maglor had made this song for little Tyelcormo, who had once found a wounded sparrow and had brought him home to Fëanor. All of his brothers thought that their Father could fix everything then. But after the sparrow had healed, Tyelcormo had been hesitant to let him go. Finally, he had done the right thing, but then he had been so sad that Maglor had had to make this song so he would cheer him up. And Tyelcormo had been so happy that the little sparrow was free and cheerful.

The melody did not fail to work on the farmers. Most of them clapped to the song and Rhiane had the greatest smile on her face.

Maglor stayed in the village for a week. The farmers were a hearty folk and his songs soon became popular. The tavern was so full every evening that the farmer insisted on sharing the silver he earned with Maglor. And so, on a clear autumn morning, Maglor left the village on a swift white mare that he bought with his earnings. He named her Hwesta, for her step was light and swift. His backpack was filled with food from the inn, and also grapes. Rhiane had found out he head a sweet tooth for fruit and so she had insisted on a parting gift. He had been stunned by her generosity. That was what he would fight for. For all that was good in the world. And so Maglor waved one last time to Herion and Rhiane, and galloped into the clear sunlight. His next station was Pelargir.

**Song belongs to the band Orthodox Celts.**


	3. Chapter 2

Maglor made good progress that day. He did not have to stop for food, and there was much fresh grass for Hwesta to feast upon. Although Tyelcormo was the one with the greatest love for animals, Maglor had a soft spot for them also, especially for horses.

When he had held Maglor's Gap, his main way of warfare was mounted combat. He had loved horses since his childhood, but there he learned about their true potential. The Valinorean steeds were patient and gentle companions on many night patrols, and fierce adversaries of the Orc. Many times he was saved by his mount, and a Noldorin cavalry charge was the greatest fear of many servants of Morgoth. Hwesta did not come from such noble lines like his previous mounts, but she was a loyal and steady friend, much welcome after an age of solitude. Maglor enjoyed grooming her every evening.

It took him two days and a difficult night ride to reach his destination. Pelargir's grey walls could be seen from a great distance. The ancient city was a strongly fortified place, for many dangers still lurked in the country around it. Anarion's reign agreed with the place, and its streets were buzzing with activity even at dawn. Despite the peace that ruled, the walls were covered with guard towers, and many proud Dúnedain warriors patrolled even the docks.

The guards posted at the western gate let Maglor pass, for this was a haven of the Faithful many centuries before the birth of Elendil. He slowly made his way to the docks, enjoying opportunity to observe the inhabitants.

Maglor had never before seen such a great settlement of the Edain, and was at once fascinated by its rich markets, with goods from all over the world displayed for the customer's pleasure. Merchants haggled about prices, and children ran through the streets, avoiding their elders with a skill born out of long practice. Many sailors were busy at the docks and some were already drinking in the many taverns lined up cleanly next to the southern wall. One, named "The Two Kings ", caught his eye at once. Indeed, the sons of Elendil were quite popular.

Shaking off the daze of wonder, he started asking people about ships going for Osgiliath. He soon found his way to a proud vessel named "Star of Elros". The captain's name was Ulbar, a slim Dúnadan in his best years, his skin made bronze by the sun. He paid twenty silver for himself and five more for the horse. The ship would sail with the evening tide, and so Maglor took the opportunity to rest in one of the cabins.

He had just woken up, when the ship started sailing. Maglor slowly walked to the deck. The sailors loved their job and so they were cheerfully singing as the ship made good progress towards the mouth of the Anduin. The sight of the stars glittering from above in the pure sea water soon lulled Maglor into a semi-meditative state.

His peace of mind was soon shattered by a black vessel passing by. In the dim light he could see that the men on the other ship were also of Númenorean descent. But those were not Dúnedain, for they started shouting insults. The crewman of the Star of Elros also started shouting back, and so soon jeers and taunts were hurled all around.

"Treacherous dogs of the Valar!"

"Worms of Sauron, willing slaves of the Darkness!"

"Elf-loving traitors of your own race!"

"Spawns of Morgoth, naught of our kin are you!"

The peaceful Dúnedain crew was foaming with rage all around him. The moment of chaos soon passed, and Ulbar wearily seated himself next to the elf. After taking a few deep breaths the human spoke. "We are sorry that you had to see that, Master Elf."

Maglor gently patted his shoulder, attempting to reassure the clearly distraught human.

But the Captain continued in a soft voice. "Did you know I was once one of them?"

The elf's shocked gaze was the only answer he got.

And so Ulbar started a lengthy story about the origins of the event Maglor just witnessed. "When my brother and I were young back in Númenor, our father died unexpectedly on a hot day. The healers said it was a failure of the heart. But we were young and foolish, and we started fearing death. How could the Valar and elves tell us about the gift of Men, when they knew nothing of it? We had nightmares about an eternal suffocating darkness, about the absence of existence. And then the Cult of Melkor offered us a vision of immortality. Naïve as were, we joined. Eternal life was a good promise. We prayed to Melkor diligently and soon the time came for our Initiation. As we stood in the temple, a captive was dragged before us. We were ordered to kill him. He was one of the Faithful, all tied up and gagged, but his eyes were begging us for mercy. I did not know if I had the courage to refuse, but I was spared of the choice, because my brother slaughtered him like a pig. Sauron himself praised the deed. I could not take any more atrocities, so I fled to Rómenna in secret. I swore fealty to Amandil, and ended up here with the exiles."

Maglor could only sigh with sadness, but he couldn't hold back his curiosity. "What happened to your brother? ", he asked.

"He swore fealty to Herumor and Fuinor, Sauron's pawns.", the answer came. "He was the one that started the jeering match you witnessed before. Even his name he abandoned. The Belegorn I knew is dead. He calls himself "The Mouth of Sauron" now. But despite what he did, I still see in him the little brother with whom I played. There are many stories like mine, and people say there is no hatred greater than the one between brothers."

After finishing his sad story the captain left, leaving the elf to his own thoughts. Maglor could only agree with the last remark. He remembered well the hatred of his father towards Fingolfin, and the many conflicts between the Noldor, and the elves in general.

The night wasn't so beautiful anymore.


	4. Chapter 3

Dawn had found Maglor sitting on the bow of the ship. After the disturbing meeting with the Black Númenoreans he had been unable to sleep. He loved what the Edain had made of their new land, but now he realised that they would live forever under the threat of darkness. The sons of Elendil had made the kingdom strong, they had rooted it deeply, and earned the love of their subjects, but their greatest trial was yet to come.

They were facing an enemy of unsurpassed cunning, a creature of legends older than the world itself. _May Eru grant them wisdom_. Still, he found himself unable to swallow in dark thoughts as the ship was making its way up the river. In the light of the newborn sun, the river was blazing with a soft golden light. A gentle southern breeze was blowing, and Maglor could smell the salty air of the sea in it. Both banks of the Anduin were made beautiful in the days of Sauron's long slumber. Green meadows, little forests; the perfect balance of wilderness and civilisation.

When he was taking the first steps on his musical career back in Tirion, Maglor's teachers had taught him to always keep an ear open for the sound of water. Water was the lifeblood of the world, something that ran from its very foundations all the way into the sky. The smallest surface stream and the deepest underground lake all kept an echo of the music of the Ainur. The sound of water was sad for the marring of Arda, but joyful for new life, despite it. Water was patience, wisdom of an old age. Water was compassion and the deepest melody that even elven ears had trouble understanding. But he had got poetic once more; his blade was needed, not his harp.

Maglor remembered how learning to kill had felt like in the First age. He was a musician, his hands were made for the harp and the flute, not for the sword and the bow. Of all the sons of Fëanor, he was the most reluctant to learn the lessons of warfare. His brothers used different means to cope with it. Maedhros did it to protect his people. That was his royal duty anyway. Celegorm adjusted most easily, for a hunter would have killed even in blessed Valinor. Caranthir was passion incarnated, a fiery rage directed at those that would threaten his brothers and his people. Maglor recalled all the battles they had fought together. Caranthir's battle cry was always the loudest. Curufin killed with the detachment of an expert craftsman, a blacksmith hammering something upon his anvil. It needed doing and so he did it. Amrod and Amras found solace in each other's company. Not that they needed it very much, they were both hunters anyway.

The first time Maglor had killed an Orc, he did not even realise what he was doing. In the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Noldor were ambushed by the armies of the Black Foe. But Orcs were just bogey-men for the elves who had spent their entire lives in Valinor: when Maglor was little, Maedhros would sometimes scare him with tales of Orcs.

But they had been something immaterial then, far away, something that could make a group of elvish youths shiver around a fire and find comfort in companionship. Not the hunched, screaming shadows armed to the teeth, bloodthirsty creatures baying for blood and begging for death with elven eyes. He had rammed a blade through the chest of one shadow and it had fallen with a grunt, staring at him with green eyes filled with sadness and gratitude.

The Noldor army was forged on that eve, when youths who had never killed something in their lives had found a motivation to keep going. Passion, anger, the urge to protect their loved ones, it did not matter. The Noldor had fought and the Noldor had killed. Before dawn, each elf was a veteran, a blade quenched and ready. Maglor had found his passion in the green eyes of his first kill. He was not killing them; Morgoth had killed them on the day he had made them into monsters. He was releasing them from their curse and hoping beyond hope that on the day when the world would be sung anew, they would find peace and home and love in the embrace of Eru.

Ulmo had not given him an opportunity to sate the blood-thirst Celebrimbor's death had woken in him; he had given him a chance to find redemption. He would fight with passion and for vengeance. Passionate warriors were rightfully revered, but he would not let those emotions cloud his judgement. He was not a blade. He was a shield that would protect the realms of the free peoples.

Maglor smiled. It seemed he had found a measure of wisdom. The elf was still smiling when Ulbar found him later in the morning. The sailor sat next to the elf. "We are nearing Osgiliath, Master Elf," he spoke. "We should reach the docks in the early afternoon hours. Brace yourself, it is quite a sight".

"I have seen many cities during my life, Master Ulbar," Maglor smirked. "I think I will survive Osgiliath's majesty. "

"Do you want to make a bet, Master Elf? I will bet a round of beer that Osgiliath will leave you breathless," Ulbar said.

"You have your bet, Dúnadan," Maglor said after a moment of thought.

He would not have made the bet if he had known what was coming. The banks were growing more tame as they neared the city. And then, one hour after noon, Osgiliath was in front of them. Tall white walls of incredible height on both sides of the river, so white they were shining silver under the light of the sun. Spires and towers rising to incredible heights, two enormous guard towers defending the docks, with a statue of a man Maglor could not recognize on the ground between them. And that was only the beginning.

Wide streets in regular intervals, inns, shops of all kind, traders, spices, leather, books, weapons, fruit, meat. Everything you could name, you could find in Osgiliath. And the people! Maglor had never seen such a multitude. Citizens, fishermen, lore-masters, blacksmiths, merchants. But the most majestic were undoubtedly the soldiers in their gleaming steel armors, armed with spears and shields, with swords on their belts. Archers with Númenorean bows as tall as they were, proud knights on beautiful mounts, each of them wearing a tabard with the White Tree beneath the seven stars, with the mighty crown in gold thread above it.

Maglor snapped out of his reverie to find Ulbar rolling on the floor with laughter next to him. Grasping the last remnants of his pride, Maglor said in what he hoped was a voice full of dignity "You have your beer." It still came out like a croak.

"You should have seen Armenelos in the days of its glory, master Elf. This is a mere attempt to recapture its majesty, but by the look on your face, it seems it was a successful one."

"A most majestic sight indeed."


End file.
